Not Quite 32 Flavors
by embroiderama
Summary: Dean gets his tonsils removed; Sam brings him a new flavor of ice cream every day. Sick!Dean


Sam didn't realize that Dean really had a problem beyond yet another damn sore throat until he passed out, whacking his head on the metal towel bar in the motel bathroom and slicing his scalp open. Sam would've stitched it up, but it wouldn't stop bleeding and Dean wouldn't wake up. Beyond all that Dean's skin was hot and dry under Sam's hand, and just a month after losing Dad he couldn't risk something happening to Dean, too.

He tied a t-shirt tight over the wound on Dean's head, dumped Dean in the back of the Impala, and took off to the ER. Unconsciousness plus a big bloody head wound got Dean on a gurney and back in an exam room before Sam had even figured out which names he should use. Once he got the car moved to a legal parking spot there was nothing for Sam to do but wait and worry and wonder what he'd missed.

When the doctor came out to talk to him, when Sam admitted that yeah, Dean had gotten sick with a sore throat a few times in the past year and no, he didn't know anything about the year before that, it turned out that Sam had missed chronic tonsillitis. Dean always got quiet when he got sick, reserving his energy or some shit, and as fucked up as things had been for over a year sometimes quiet was normal. Sometimes it felt like a blessing.

When Dean woke up with a stitched-up laceration and what the doctor assured them was a mild concussion, he copped to having a few throat infections the year before. _I took antibiotics_, he said. _They went away. No big._ But with Dean in a crappy hospital gown, feverish and uncomfortable under the doctor's frowning face, Sam could see that Dean had lost probably twenty pounds. Sam didn't think that he'd be enthusiastic about eating either, if his tonsils were inflamed and covered in pus and maybe stones.

In any case, the doctor was pumping Dean full of fluids and antibiotics, and the tonsils would come out. The next day, when the hospital staff wheeled Dean away to the OR, he called back to Sam, "You better bring me ice cream, bitch!"

After the surgery, as soon as Dean recovered from the anesthesia enough to stop puking, he looked better than he had in a week, even if his face scrunched up in pain every time he had to swallow. When the intern came by and said it was okay for Dean to have something to eat, Sam got the nurse to bring the white container he'd talked her into sticking in the freezer earlier. Dean pushed himself up as soon as he saw the container.

"What flavor did you get me," he croaked.

"Strawberry." Sam shrugged. The hospital cafeteria hadn't had much of a selection.

"Pink ice cream is for girls," Dean grumbled, but when he swallowed, the tension in his face smoothed out, replaced by a small smile. "S'good."

Sam wanted to see that smile again. He also wanted Dean to put back the bulk he's lost, and a steady supply of ice cream sounded like the perfect answer. They were prepared to check out of the hospital early to avoid problems with the fake insurance, but the hospital kicked Dean out before they had the chance. He'd be fine, beds at a premium, whatever. Sam got Dean set up in a better than usual motel room and went out to fill his prescriptions and check out the little ice cream store he'd seen on the drive over.

The place turned out to be amazing--home-made ice cream, special flavors every day--and Sam became their new best customer. Dean plowed and moaned and hummed his way through cups of coconut brownie, blueberry pie, pumpkin and espresso. Neither of them were particularly impressed with the plum ice cream, but the Mayan chocolate wiped away the memory.

When Dean refused to stay put for one more day, when they packed up and left town, Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder before he could walk out of the motel room. "Hey, Sam?" Dean swallowed, just the smallest hitch in the movement of his throat, no flinch. "Thanks, you know."

Sam smiled, and it felt like a real smile for once. "For the ice cream?"

Dean breathed out a short laugh. "Yeah, dude. That was some damn good ice cream." He patted Sam's shoulder and then they were out, away, and the atmosphere in the Impala felt a lot lighter than a missing pair of tonsils could account for.


End file.
